For Steve, (and Farewell??)

[Foreward: what follows is a very long, possibly strange poem for a guy who supposedly liked me a lot.  But wouldn't let himself get close to me.  I feel like I've all but run this "relationship"(haha) into the ground.  This is something I wrote a couple of weeks ago.  I don't know that it's over for good, but I'm guessing. Hence, this is for you Steve Brunswick.  This is for you.  Cheers.]

For Steve

I don’t know very much about you.

I don’t know if you ever had braces.

I don’t know what your favorite color is.

I don’t know how you feel about clowns

And I don’t know if you’re allergic to anything.

I don’t know the names of the ex-girlfriends who got to you

And ruined you for other well-meaning women.

I do know your birthday.

I know your middle name, although you never asked me mine.

And I will remember that you stuck around long enough for my friends to nickname you

Steve Brunswick, for no apparent reason.

I will remember your favorite writers and poets.

I will remember the gasping, heart-stopping, warm, dizzying sensation I felt when I read

a poem you wrote

And I was sure it was about me.

I don’t know what age you were when

You got glasses.

I know your eyes are a beautiful caramel brown, almost amber.

[Although I didn’t get time

To memorize the color, so now I’m questioning the

Exact shade.]

Soulful, warm, full of sparkle and humor.

His were blue. 

The first “his” had blue eyes too.

As a rule, I don’t really trust blue eyes.

They’re so cool, glassy, transparent.

They’re beautiful but dangerous,

They’re not like mine.

I’m not supposed to know your parents’ names,

But I think I do.  I don’t know

Your politics.

I don’t know what your first car was, or why you love Milwaukee so much.

Home, just?  Fair enough.  Okay.

I don’t know if you played an instrument.  Or maybe I do.  [Sax?  I have a good

memory.]

I feel like you played Little League baseball as a kid.  Maybe even in high-school?  Short-stop, was it?

Sounds about right.

I have not spent years getting to know your habits. 

When you shower, when you shave.

Do you put the toothpaste cap back on the tube immediately after use?

Is there a right way, and a wrong way to put the toilet paper in the dispenser?

[These are the important questions.]

I know you’re excellent at shutting down.

Putting up those walls:

The ones with pointy glass shards on the top, and maybe some barbed wire coiling

around them,

To keep you safe, safe, safe.

You may be one of the most stubborn people I’ve ever met,

And I don’t think I mean that as a compliment.

I know you look for love constantly, but never expect to find it.

I know you think everyone will hurt you, eventually, inevitably.

And maybe they will…

I know you inspired feelings in me that shouldn’t have been there.  [And I hate that.]

Why these feelings? 

I have no idea.

I think I can count the number of meetings we had.

Single digits,

And that’s ridiculous. 

I wouldn’t call you a rebound, ever. 

I suppose my friends might.

I don’t know what I would call you.

You inspired me, certainly.  So I could call you that – inspiring.

You moved me to write again.  I’m thankful.  I need some practice, but it feels good.

You have also deeply irritated me.  So I could call you some hurtful names, if I wanted.

Your melancholy attitude, your willingness to give up so easily, your impenetrable

and cynical outlook, your many different faces and moods.

One thing that’s worse, you made me want to fix you, change you, prove that I’m better

than the others, that I’m right about my kind of love, that I could be more for you

than you ever dreamed.

Yeah.

You made me get ahead of myself.  I’m not proud of that.

But you presented a challenge.  You made me want to win.

But you also made me want to quit love.  Give up.

I can’t tell you I’m falling in love with you.

I won’t say I’m only your’s.

I can’t promise I’ll never leave you.

And why would I say that? 

We all leave. 

Sickness, injury, death, a part of us always leaves

And there’s always a someone or two that is left hurt, at one time or another, holding the

pieces,

Heartbroken, waiting to mend the wreckage of their life.

No one can swear forever.

What we do, is do our best with the time we have. 

We hope. 

We cling.

We grasp at something that may be it.

We burst with possibility.

Is that enough?  Maybe not.  Or, maybe it’s too much.

But it’s all we’ve got. 

Will you be the next “he”, the “him” after that,

The “him” forever?

Maybe.  Probably not though.

And I’m not ready for that anyway

As I thought the last “he” was my forever hymn.

[See what I did there?  

I knew you would.]

You took me to one of your favorite spots.

Semi-secluded, it was gorgeous. 

The slate blue horizon line almost disappeared in places

And the lake and sky were different hues of the same color:
An icy, winter sunset.
Lovers, reflecting the rhythm of wind and waves in each separate sphere.

The calm murmur of the water as you skipped

Stones, ever only two hops for you –

You couldn’t see that far in the future.

You chuckled musically at my feeble skipping attempts.

And there I was, drinking it all in

Watching you for any tell-tale signs of affection [there weren’t any]

While scanning the flat, dimly-lit mirror in front of me for answers.

I won’t remember how to get to that place.

I will remember the bridges we crossed to get there

And back,

And the still, crisp, wrenching moment when you told me we’d better be done

For our own good.